When I finished, her eyes shifted to fix on my own. “Lena ,what does this mean for Carrie?” she asked. Her voice was trembling from the effort it cost her to not fall apart.
“Well, my hope is that by not committing another robbery, these two have stopped being a threat. Being a criminal in Chicago is very dangerous. They could be dead, or in jail for another crime. That’s what I hope,” I cautioned. “However, I can’t tell you that Carrie is safe, or that they won’t still go after her even if they have stopped for now.”
“Well, can’t you keep looking for them?” Roland asked me, lifting his head. But I was already shaking mine.
“Roland, Alicia, finances aside, I would absolutely keep looking for you, if I thought there was anyplace left to go. But the police did a pretty good job investigating this one, and I went back and covered all the ground that they did and much more. Unless there’s another similar robbery or someone comes forward, there’s just nowhere else to go with this. And I can’t keep draining your resources on a case that’s come to a standstill.”
As I spoke, I had to work to keep my own voice steady. I wanted to blame the new hormones, but truthfully I knew damn well I had gotten a little too emotionally invested in this one. I’d been to Carrie’s bedroom, seen the basketball trophies and movie posters, the college brochures she’d been collecting for years already. I’d been to her room at the hospital, covered in cards and notes from her teammates and schoolmates, the neighbor’s kids she’d babysat and the woman who’d coached her middle school basketball team. I’d seen Carrie herself, pale and drawn with her mother’s willowy limbs, as she lay in her hospital bed. I’d held her hand, and then I’d failed to make her safe. Intellectually, I knew that there was only so much that any investigator could do, but the responsibility still pressed down on me.
“What about another PI?” Roland said hesitantly. “Not that we’re criticizing what you’ve done, but perhaps with a fresh pair of eyes...”
I nodded. “If that’s something you wish to pursue, I absolutely understand, and I can give you a few names. But truthfully, there is no trail to follow here, no other rocks to overturn,” I said, as carefully as I could. “And I worry that another investigator might not be honest with you, and wind up costing you much more in both your finances and your emotions.” I leaned forward, to catch both of their eyes. “The best advice I can give you is to move Carrie again. Find a good hospital, and talk to the board about admitting her under a different name. Meanwhile, I’ve spoken to my contacts at the police department, and we’re all watching for these guys to pop up on the radar again.”
I walked the Emersons to the door, both of them tearful and defeated. I shook Roland’s hand, hugged Alicia, and promised to call them if anything came up. Back in my office, I closed the door and leaned my back against it. I waited silently until my eyes began to fill, and then to overflow, and then I bent forward to let the tears drip straight down onto the carpet. I watched the drops numbly and tried not to think about Carrie Emerson. Or my own child, growing bigger at that very moment.
I couldn’t keep Carrie Emerson safe. Why on earth would I want to have a baby?
5. You Really Are a Detective
After the Emersons left, Bryce informed me that Nate Christianti had called to set up a 4:30 meeting with him and Tom. I thanked him and buried myself in paperwork for most of the late morning and early afternoon. I had a big file of photos from Ruby to look through and email to a client, who was paying me to investigate her ex-husband’s insurance claim. Bryce’s flaky sister was, rather remarkably, a meditation freak, and she had the patience to sit and watch someone for hours, much longer than I would have been able to stand. Unfortunately after two days of following this guy around in his wheelchair, she had come up with nothing. I sent the completely non-incriminating photos along to my client and asked for further instruction.
After lunch I turned back to Nate’s case, deciding to start with the task I was dreading most: cold-calling. I spent an hour on the phone and left voicemails for eight of Chicago’s Jason Andersons, and spoke to the six Jason Andersons who answered. None of them had any idea who Sarah or Nate were.
I briefed Bryce on the phone project and asked him to follow up with the voicemail people. Then I went online to dig into the background of Savvy Printing, the company that had published Nate’s father’s novel. From what I found, Savvy had been a reputable firm in the early 70’s. As the publishing industry shifted, though, Savvy declined, and by the time Jason Anderson came along the company was mainly distributing regionally. If you were a Chicago author and they liked your work, Savvy might get it out to the few independent booksellers left in the city, and maybe Madison and Milwaukee. Because of this, they mostly specialized in Chicago-set novels, like Sunset Dies.
In 2005 the company finally folded. It had been a drawn out, predictable death, but Savvy had fought to the end. I found an old employee list on a defunct website, and started Googling the agents. In 2001 only four agents remained: Casey Dickerson, Natalie Patton, Jennifer Wu, and Nicholas Regent. Regent had died of a heart attack in 2006, and I couldn’t find anything at all on Natalie Patton after Savvy was dissolved. She might have died, or become a stay-at-home-mom, or gone to work somewhere without computers. Like, you know, Mars.
I did find Dickerson and Wu, though, at two different big publishing houses in New York. By then it was quarter after 3, getting close to when I needed to leave, so I decided to call them in the morning.
At 3:45 I pulled Nate’s address from the case file and hit the road.
I had envisioned a typical Chicago suburb, and I wasn’t far off. The Christianti home was in one of those upscale divisions that some non-creative city planner had filled with the same four basic house designs over and over, throwing on a combination of pastel colors for “individuality.”
Nate was sitting on his front stoop when I pulled up, looking for all the world like Beaver Cleaver waiting for his friends to come over and play. Shrugging my work bag onto my shoulder, I strode up the sidewalk and plopped down beside Nate on the front steps. He seemed lost in thought, or maybe about to fall asleep, and I resisted the urge to wave my hand in front of his face.
“Hey,” I said, trying to be friendly. I’m used to kids, but usually of the smaller variety. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to talk to teenagers. “How’s it going?”
Surprised green eyes lit on my face as if it’d just appeared. “I’m good,” he said reflexively. “You can come in, I guess.” He shook his head as if to clear it. I frowned. Was he on drugs or something?
We stood up and I felt the strongest desire to touch him, to ruffle his hair or pat his shoulder, anything, and my hand actually rose from my side, unbidden. I grabbed my messenger bag instead, hefting it further on my shoulder and following Nate into the house.
The entryway – what my dad would call a foyer – was high-ceilinged and tired-looking, with dust piling in the corners and wallpaper peeling at the corners. We crossed through into a living room, where everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.
I was so busy looking around that I almost missed Nate’s stepfather, sunk into a corner of a deep blue leather sofa. From what Nate had told me I was expecting him to be about 45, but this man looked sixty, at least.
“Mr. Christianti,” I said, recovering, “It’s nice to meet you.”
He struggled to his feet, with Nate hovering anxiously over him, and I saw how pale the older man was, how tired looking. His khaki pants and quarter-zip sweater hung loose on him, like he’d lost an alarming amount of weight and not bothered with new clothes. My eyes darted around the room again, and this time I noticed the medical supplies tucked in corners or underneath piles of magazines.
“You’re sick,” I said bluntly. I regretted it instantly, ready to smack myself. But Tom Christianti just chuckled.
“And you really are a detective,” he said, smiling. “Call me Tom, please.”
I nodded. “And I’m Lena. So
rry about...” I trailed off, not knowing how to finish. Being rude? The fact that you’re sick.
He shrugged. “It’s kind of refreshing, actually. I’m so tired of people dancing around it.” He wrinkled his nose good-naturedly, and for the briefest second I thought I saw what he must have been like before: a fun, winking bear of a man. “In point of fact, I’m dying.”
I looked at Nate, who was guiltily not meeting my eyes. “That’s why you want to find Jason now,” I said softly. “You need a guardian.” Nate nodded, still not looking at me.
“Nate and I have been trying to keep up appearances,” Tom said, rescuing him. “We both know it won’t last forever, but...anyway.” He pulled himself up a little straighter on the couch, and I saw Nate flinch out of the corner of his eye, starting forward and then thinking better of it. “What can I do to help you find Jason Anderson?”
“Right.” I glanced at Nate. “Nate, would you mind-”
“I’m staying.”
There was no give in his voice, and I raised my eyebrows. “All right,” I said easily. I pulled a yellow pad and a pen out of my bag and turned my attention back to Tom Christianti. “What did Sarah tell you about her first husband?”
Tom frowned. “Not a whole lot. He wanted to be a writer, I know. He was writing a book, and Sarah said he used to talk about writing screenplays, trying to get into the movie business.”
“Okay.” I made a note on the yellow pad. “Did she say why the two of them split up?”
He shrugged. “I think the divorce was a mutual thing. He’d been unhappy for a long time, I guess, and when he finally left he had Sarah’s blessing. I think it was almost a relief for her.”
That fit with what I’d read in Sunset Dies. “Did she ever mention any relatives of his? Parents, siblings, cousins, anything?”
Tom frowned, thinking carefully. I looked at Nate again. His eyes were on Tom alone, staring as though if he looked away Tom would stop breathing.
“I did ask her once if Nate had grandparents or family on the other side. She said Jason’s father had died just after they got married, and his mom was in a nursing home in Milwaukee with Alzheimer’s. That was probably six or seven years ago now, so I don’t know if she’s still alive.”
Hmm. “Would there still be anybody in this neighborhood who might remember Jason?” I persisted.
Nate and Tom looked at each other, and Tom finally shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re welcome to ask, I guess. Let’s see, the only neighbors who are still around from when I moved here are Delilah Harker from two doors down, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger from next door.” He pointed to the left wall of the living room. “Oh, and Richard Renier, he lives across the street, but he’s quite elderly now. Nate,” he turned to his stepson, “can you think of anyone else?”
Nate shook his head. “That’s it, as far as I know. Most of the families are pretty new.”
“Okay, that helps.” I said, writing it down. “Anything else that either of you know about him?”
“I don’t think so.” Tom looked at his stepson. “Nate, can you get me a glass of water, please? And maybe Lena would like one, too.”
Nate glanced at me for confirmation and I smiled at him. “That would be great.”
Tom kept a pleasant smile on his face as Nate got up, and it struck me how hard the two of them were working to protect each other. No wonder Nate seemed so tired. As his stepson reluctantly departed, Tom’s eyes moved slowly back to mine.
“Sarah did tell me that Jason never seemed interested in Nate,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Like his own son was a pair of new shoes that pinched, she said. Sarah would get really upset about it, whenever she mentioned him.” His face was anxious and sorrowful. “Probably why we never talked about Jason much.” He shook his head. “Even if you find him, how can I let Nate go back to that kind of a man?”
Feeling helpless, I put down the pad and reached across the coffee table to put my hand over Tom Christianti’s, not knowing what to say. “Do you have any other family?” I finally asked. “Anyone at all who would be good for Nate?”
He shook his head bitterly. “My parents are alive, as far as I know, but my father is a drunk, and I haven’t spoken to either of them in fifteen years. They’re not suited.”
Nate came back into the room, and I pulled my hand back and straightened. The boy placed pint glasses of water in front of each of us.
“Nate,” Tom said seriously. “I want to talk to Lena for another minute alone.” Nate began to protest, and Tom held up his bony hand sternly. “It’s fine. Lena will call you right away if she needs anything or if I keel over.” Nate stared at him worriedly, and Tom grinned. “Kid. That was a joke. Smile once in awhile, will you?”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“It’s fine.” Tom waved his hand. “Go. Do your homework for once.”
Nate left silently, and Tom turned back to me. “To finish answering your question, Sarah and I used to have couple friends, but I’ve lost touch with most of them, and certainly none of them would take on a 14-year-old boy. There just isn’t anyone else.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said helplessly.
Tom played with the edge of his blanket, the exact same gesture Nate had been doing in my office yesterday. “Me, too. My best friend in college, he was an orphan, and he bounced around foster homes here in Chicago until he was thirteen. The things he told me...I don’t want them to happen to Nate. Whatever kind of man Jason Anderson is now, he’s Nate’s last chance of staying out of the system.”
I nodded, fighting back a sudden rush of tears. For Nate, and for this dying man who wanted nothing more than to leave his kid in safe hands. At that moment Tom leaned forward and took my hand again, with a fierceness that I hadn’t expected. “I know the situation is unusual, but will you still take the case?”
I looked into the dying man’s eyes, and I knew I was in way over my head. I was thirty years old, with no real backup and plenty of my own problems, including a pregnancy I was currently unprepared to acknowledge. So I swallowed hard and said the only thing there was to say.
“I will.”
6. Kind of a Douchebag
It was five-thirty when I left the Christianti house, and I decided that I might as well talk to Nate’s neighbors while I was right there. Using a sketched map that Nate had drawn up for me, I went next door to visit Mr. Renier, the elderly bachelor. He offered me a cup of tea, then trailed off uncertainly, as if he’d already forgotten the line of conversation. Ten minutes of frustrating questions got me nowhere, and I realized Mr. Renier barely remembered his own name, much less Jason Anderson’s. I wished him a polite good evening and tried Mr. and Mrs. Granger, a couple in their fifties whose children had grown up and moved away. Nate had said that they had a second home in Arizona or Florida, he couldn’t remember which, but they usually returned in the spring. There was no answer at the door, and I walked back down the front steps and circled to the garage, peeking in the tiny window. There were two vehicles parked in the garage, and no garbage in either or the big cans near the window. The Grangers were out of state.
My last stop was Delilah Harker, whom Nate had described as a thirty-something single mom who had inherited her house when her parents died. The door popped open a second after I knocked, and I was face to face with a breathless, harried woman who shushed me immediately.
“Whoever you are, you have to be quiet,” she stage-whispered. “It took him two hours to stop crying!”
“Sorry,” I whispered back. Delilah Harker looked like a graduate student, a fresh-faced woman with fashionable horn-rimmed glasses and unwashed hair that was almost as long as my own. She had the kind of tawny skin that could come from any number of heritages, and hair so black that it shone blue in the street light. She was slim and petite, except for a couple of extra pounds at her middle, and she dressed sloppily in baggy jeans and a pink T-shirt that said “Save the Ta-Tas” in white script across her chest. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was
referring to breast cancer.
I introduced myself, and explained what I needed.
“Sure, I remember Jason,” she whispered. “Hang on.” Retreating a few steps into the house, she returned with a black leather jacket and a small white handset. “Baby monitor,” she explained in a low voice. She shrugged into the coat and motioned for me to go back down the porch steps, shutting the door behind her. It was warm for spring, almost in the fifties, and we sat down on the steps. I made myself comfortable, leaning back against the iron railing.
“That’s better,” she sighed. She examined the monitor, making sure it was on. “I tested the range of this thing last weekend. I’m good all the way down the driveway.” She leaned back against the railing, relaxing. “Sorry about the shushing. Kid was supposed to take a nap three hours ago, but he’s impossible.”
“It’s no problem,” I said, letting her compose herself.
Delilah raised her left hand to pull back a stray bang, and I noticed a little band of stars and moons tattooed down the length of her forearm. I peeked at her other arm. A zigzagging pattern of flowers and leaves braceleted her wrist. Her leather jacket had those sleeves with a slit that could be closed by a zipper, perfectly framing the tattoos and creating an artsy-motorcycle chick kind of look.
“So, Jason Anderson,” she said after a moment. “Weird guy. What do you need to know?”
The Big Keep: A Lena Dane Mystery (Lena Dane Mysteries) Page 4
